Chapter Thirty-One #2
When Caroline entered the dining-parlour, Mrs Bingley was already sitting ramrod straight at the other end of the lengthy table.
She took a seat appropriately far from her mother and cast a surreptitious glance around the room.
Gone was the familiar bustle and warmth of the Pemberley staff—here, the servants glided in and out as silent as shadows, depositing plates and filling glasses.
They were so quiet that Caroline found herself straining to see if they were even breathing.
Possibly Mother had forbidden breathing in her presence; it wouldn’t have surprised Caroline, though it was possible that holding one’s breath caused sad lung.
Then again, she couldn’t imagine her mother caring if a servant got sad lung, other than to complain about the brief distress replacing them would cost her.
Caroline stared down at the plate of braised greens, topped by an unseasoned and overcooked lamb shank which had been delivered
to her by a pale boy with dark circles under his eyes, and felt a deep longing rise inside her for Mrs Addlecombe’s cooking.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, realising she’d missed her mother’s last comment.
A short, icy silence warned her not to make the same mistake again. “I said, and how are the Darcys?”
“They are well. Mr Darcy is lately married, as you know.” Once, that statement had stung her, but she had long ceased to care.
Now, she could only think of Georgiana, of her sweet kisses and the kindness she had shown when Caroline had felt at her most
lonely. The pale footman poured her wine, then melted back into the shadows. Caroline took a sip, then a much larger gulp;
a little liquid courage must surely help here.
“Hmm. Does his new wife have any brothers?” her mother inquired.
She nearly choked. “No, only sisters. Four of them. The eldest is married to Charles, Mother.”
“Ah.” Mrs Bingley’s expression did not change, but the atmosphere thickened noticeably. “Another Bennet. They do spread themselves
around, do they not? Marrying all the gentlemen they can find.”
Caroline stared down at her plate again, then picked up her fork simply to have something to do. Once, she would have laughed
heartily at that remark and contributed something unkind—albeit correct—of her own. Now, she felt sorry she’d ever done so.
The Bennets were not the perfect family by any means, but they seemed to genuinely love each other. That was more than she
could claim had ever happened under this roof.
“If you are too overcome by joy to engage in polite conversation, then let us get to the heart of the matter,” her mother
said, sounding more indulgent than Caroline had ever heard her. “I was thinking an August wedding. July would be better, but
there is so much to do. September would be too late, for the leaves will have begun to fall and will insist on creating that
dreadful mulch you know I cannot stand.”
Caroline’s fork slipped through her fingers, clattering against her plate. Despite the considerable distance, she heard her
mother tut.
“You needn’t worry about my blessing. I approve the match most heartily,” Mrs Bingley added. “It is about as well as you could
possibly do, given the circumstances.”
“The . . . the circumstances?” Caroline echoed, baffled.
“Caroline, do not play coy. Everyone knows you were chasing after another man for some time and failed to catch him. That
sort of thing reflects badly, you know. A hunter ought to always catch her quarry.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“It is no matter,” Mrs Bingley said, waving a gracious hand. “Now you have a viscount. My, my, what a fine man he is.”
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, seeking inner strength. This was not going to go down well at all but too bad. She
had made her choice, and she would stand by it. “Mother, I came here to tell you that I cannot marry Lord Ashbrook,” she said,
and hated the quaver in her voice.
“Nonsense. He is a perfect match for you.”
“I am in love with someone else, Mother.”
“Love?” Mrs Bingley repeated. “I thought we were talking of marriage.”
“They are not mutually exclusive ideas these days,” she muttered.
“Love is a silly, newfangled notion. Upon my word, it’ll never catch on.” Mrs Bingley eyed her. “I’m surprised to hear you
talk such rubbish, Caroline. Of all my children, you are the most like me.”
Caroline gaped at her mother, unable to summon a coherent response.
“Your hunger to climb ought to take you far in life,” Mrs Bingley went on. “At least, you were hungry when you first debuted.
I had expected better of you by three-and-twenty, truth be told. Consider that Charles fell to the foolish affliction you
call love, while Louisa made a more sensible, if rather mediocre, match. One despairs to see one’s children making poor choices.
But you have a fabulous opportunity in your grasp now. A titled gentleman, no less. You may be many things, Caroline, but
you are not impractical.”
“The viscount seems to be a good man, but he . . . I could never be happy, Mother.”
“Happiness is fleeting. Security lasts. Besides, I have heard rumours,” Mrs Bingley said, her voice dropping several degrees, “of untoward behaviour on your part.”
The hairs on the back of Caroline’s neck prickled. “Untoward?” she repeated, dread pinning her to the chair. Had someone seen
her and Georgiana together? No, it wasn’t possible. They’d been careful. Even the occasional kisses stolen inside the carriage
had been performed with secrecy.
“The best way to eliminate such rumours is to marry at once and marry well. Ashbrook is the solution to your problems.”
“I do not have problems,” Caroline said, forcing herself to stay calm. “To whom do you attribute these rumours?”
“Oh, but you do, daughter mine. Without me, what fortune do you have? What dowry? Without Hadley Hall to return to, where
will you live? Do you imagine that people won’t talk, if you plan to be a spinster all your life? Or do you intend to live
upon the charity of your precious Darcys?” Mrs Bingley’s expression was glacial. “He doesn’t love you, Caroline. It is frankly
embarrassing to have you lingering around Pemberley, waiting for him to return with another woman in tow. I raised you to
have dignity, not to act like some simpering mistress who—”
“Oh bloody hellfire!” she swore. “I am not in love with Mr Darcy. Why does everyone think that?”
“Do not curse in this house.” Disbelief lined every haughty wrinkle of Mrs Bingley’s beautiful face. “And do not lie to your
mother, child. It is unbecoming. I taught you better than that.”
“What you taught me,” Caroline said, rising to her feet and wishing she could upend the entire table, “was how to be a hunter.
A wolf, always looking for her next meal, always keeping abreast of the pack.”
For the first time, her mother looked pleased. “I’m glad you hold my lessons in such high esteem. Finally, we make a little headway in our conversation.”
“You misunderstand me, Mother. I would rather be a sheep.” In her mind’s eye, she saw Mr Acton’s painting again—the lamb,
wandering from the safety of the flock. Why had she known that there ought to have been danger in the skies overhead? Was
it because she had lived that way? She’d never known a moment’s peace from her mother’s eyes, nor from her unceasing, oppressive
judgement. It had pressed her like coal, turning her into a diamond; beautiful, certainly, but hard and cold and unfeeling.
No wonder Georgiana had thought her—
“A sheep? I cannot believe it,” her mother snarled. “What a silly thing to say.”
Caroline’s fury faded, leaving her exhausted. She hated this place, with its beauty and grandeur and lack of any real emotion.
Where was the fondness, the intimacy, the compassion that she saw in other families? “I cannot marry Lord Ashbrook,” she repeated,
gathering her courage. Do it now, she told herself. You are many things, but you are not a coward, Caroline. You never have been. “I love another. And she . . . She is waiting for me.”
The words tumbled into the silence like stones down a well, and Caroline waited, heart hammering, for them to land.
“She?” Mrs Bingley stared at her. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I love another woman. I might have been able to love a man one day, had I not fallen in love with her. I really do not know.
Nor shall I ever know now, for I am in love with her and her alone, and she with me. We intend to be together.” She held her
head high. “That is it. That is all.”
The silence might have been five seconds or five years, Caroline could not tell. She’d expected wrath, but when Mrs Bingley spoke again, her voice was as calm as if Caroline had merely asked her to pass the salt. “You shall marry Lord Ashbrook, and that shall be the end of it.”
“I cannot,” she gasped. “Mother, did you not hear me? I have already written to him to turn him down. And I love—”
“Then you shall write to him now to beg him back. If you do not, then you are no longer part of this family, and will never
darken our doorstep again.” Mrs Bingley picked up her wine, looked at it appreciatively, and took a sip. If Caroline didn’t
know better, she would have thought her mother entirely composed. Instead, she noticed the tightness of the jaw, the corded
muscles in the neck, the slight twitch under one eye, all tiny indicators of extreme displeasure from which there could be
no return.
“Mother, please. I beg of you to simply hear me out. I know this is not what you want, but I—”
“You heard me perfectly well the first time, Caroline Bingley. Do not make me repeat myself.”
The silence stretched on and on. “And if I do not acquiesce?”
“Then I expect you to leave this instant and never return.” Mrs Bingley’s gaze met hers, and it was colder than ice. “Choose
now. Never speak of your disgusting, sordid affair again, or never speak to me again.”
Caroline picked up her fallen fork and arranged it neatly by the side of her plate. The point of no return, she thought. In her dreams of Georgiana and the lake, the only way out had been through the darkness of the underwater cave. Perhaps something
inside her had known all along how this would turn out. She rose to her feet, smoothed down her dress, then took a deep breath.
“Gladly. Farewell, Mother.”
Before Mrs Bingley could say another word, Caroline swept out of the room.